I read all the time – sometimes reading several books at once. I am also often found listening to this sermon or that message. Seems like there’s a continuous pouring in from somewhere. And usually all this pouring in is followed closely by a pouring out. Really the outpouring is hardly stoppable most times. I find myself so filled to the brim with wonder and amazement that it really just overflows on whoever will stand still long enough to bend their ear in my direction.
But it would seem that lately…and progressively so…that I find myself in a place of quiet solitude where nothing’s necessarily pouring in, but in a momentary evening out of it all, nothing’s really pouring out either…it’s just a sort of internal reuse of it all. Sort of like how a fountain pumps back in the same water it pumped out but never actually having any of it to spill over onto the sidewalk.
And you know usually it’s stillness of water that causes it to become stagnant and overgrown with green slimy stuff so I don’t worry so much about the water being unusable or tainted.
Actually the greater concern would seem not that the water gets yucky, but rather that the water begins to evaporate. That the water line would begin to fall farther and farther from the brim of the fountain. And if no water is added, no regular pourings in then eventually the fountain would cease to be a fountain. Instead it would be parched and dry, an empty shell of its former glory. The rainbow glitters once reflected in the waters by the bright yellow light of the sun would be longed for but alas only a memory. And if by chance the water would be restored – filled back to the brim – covering the arid insides of what had ceased to be, would the fountain remember how to be a fountain? Would the water flow, would the fullness of life return bringing with it a cool stirring of constancy pumping through the almost forgotten inner workings of ebb and flow.
Lately I have felt like that fountain. Like the one that is constantly turning over and over the same water but not refilling…the one that is slowly drying up.
It hardly makes sense really.
It’s not like I’ve built a wall around myself denying access to my Beloved. On the contrary really. It seems of late that we dance together silently, quietly spinning and floating. Words go unspoken among the ribbons and swirls of His love for me. My lips are muted in the presence of His beauty and majesty.
But then it happens.
I see myself through my own eyes instead of His.
And I stumble. I forget the steps. My timing is off. I can hardly hear the music anymore.
I can’t look at Him. Can’t bear for Him to look at me. All I can do it sit in the corner with my knees drawn to my chest and bury my head in my hands. And wait. For what, I don’t know.
But then there’s a sound…the even rhythm of the breath of God.
And there He is, sitting on the floor beside me. Waiting with me.
And so we wait together…and I listen to Him breathe. And the water begins to rise.
Oh God, that you would fill me to overflowing once again. I want more of You.